


Cool Down

by radondoran



Category: Robots - Isaac Asimov
Genre: Community: fic_promptly, Gen, Heat Stroke, Mercury - Freeform, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-07
Updated: 2013-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-28 11:47:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/674054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radondoran/pseuds/radondoran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Powell collapses in "Runaround", Donovan takes charge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cool Down

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt "[any, any, the sweltering sun](http://fic-promptly.dreamwidth.org/181295.html?thread=7897647#cmt7897647)" at fic_promptly.

Gregory Powell had been out in the full glare of Mercury Sunside for how long, Mike Donovan couldn't tell. Too long. From his position atop the giant antique robot in the airlessly crisp shadow of the cliff, Donovan had tried and failed to make out what was happening between Powell and Robot SPD 13, a mile away in the snowlike glare. He wished he could at least listen in on their conversation, but radio was no good on Sunside, and spacesuit radios doubly so.

There was nothing to do but wait. He wondered how much longer he ought to wait, and what he ought to do if nothing came of waiting. To go out after Powell would be suicide—but then, without Speedy, and without the Station's photo-banks, suicide was about the most desirable option...

Donovan straightened up at a burst of static in his earphones that resolved itself into a high, metallic voice. "... that ... over there, boss? Mr. Donovan, is that you in the shadow?"

"Speedy!" So Powell's plan to sober him up had worked. Donovan half-stood on the shoulders of his giant robot, and peered out into the sunlight. There was a dark shape rapidly approaching against the unusually high albedo of the surface—unmistakably Speedy. Donovan smiled in relief. Then his heart thudded with sudden anxiety. "Speedy, where's Greg?"

The answer came back, "I have him, boss."

And as the dark shape came nearer, Donovan's eyes resolved the fact that Speedy was carrying something. A limp body in an insosuit. "Oh, _hell!_ "

When Speedy arrived not fifteen seconds later, Donovan had already clambered down from his antique robot to intercept him at the very edge of the shade. He nearly snatched Powell from the metallic grasp—it wasn't hard to lift a man under Mercurian gravity—lowered him to the ground in the darkness and shook him frantically. "Greg! Hey, Greg! Can you hear me?" There was no response. Donovan swore viciously.

Speedy was saying, "I'm so sorry, boss, I didn't want Mr. Powell to get hurt, I don't know what happened—what are we all doing out here? I can't remember—"

Donovan rounded on him, his voice a hoarse yell. "What happened, you damn walking junkyard, was—"

He stopped. Getting angry at Speedy wouldn't solve anything. In fact, if he emphasized the fact that a human being had come to harm because of Speedy, he risked unbalancing the robot's First Law potentials and throwing its positronic brain out of whack for good this time. Then he and Powell would be in the soup for sure.

Donovan swallowed hard and tried to control his breathing. This was a time for rational thought and decisive action. Nothing was to be gained from excitement. "There's nothing to be gained from excitement." That was something Powell always said. Last time he'd said it, smoothing his mustache in that smug way, Donovan had threatened to knock his block off.

Oddly enough, it was that thought that was calming. When Donovan spoke again, his voice scarcely trembled. "Never mind, Speedy. I'll explain everything later. You! Uh... Robot!" He thumped the enormous leg of his late mount.

"Yes, Master." The antique's primitive voice sounded even duller with Speedy's light and emotional tones to compare it to.

"How long can a robot like you handle the sun out there?"

"Indefinitely, Master."

Donovan nodded. The robots had been built for Mercury; it made sense that even back then, they'd have been equipped with radiation-shielded brains. "Good. Since you won't go anyplace without a rider, I'm going to leave you and your companion out here, and we'll come back for you later."

"Yes, Master."

Donovan didn't know what he would have done differently if the robot hadn't been sunproof. He didn't have time for a robotic rescue mission right now; and Powell's mount was far enough from the shadow that to retrieve it, even with Speedy's help, would be cutting it close. But it was useful to know that once things calmed down there would still be a robot to retrieve.

"OK, Speedy, let's get going." Donovan lifted Powell, and fought back a renewed wave of anxiety at the continued unresponsiveness of the limp form. He said to Speedy, "Listen, can you carry me and Greg both?" 

"Sure thing, boss. Here on Mercury you don't weigh more than a hundred and twenty pounds put together."

"Great. Here—take him—careful!"

Speedy cradled Powell over one shoulder; after an instant's hesitation, Donovan allowed himself to be lifted onto the other.

"You see that outpost, Speedy?" He had to twist in the robotic grip to find it himself. "That's 13a. Take us in there, and then follow the tunnel north-northeast back to our quarters. Fast as you can without hurting Greg—oh, and you'd better be careful of your knee, too."

Speedy noticed the corrosion in the joint for the first time—a robot could not feel pain, after all. "Golly, what happened?"

"Never mind! Back to the Station, and hurry!"

—-

"Help me get his suit off," said Donovan, when he and Speedy had gotten Powell up out of the tunnels and laid him on the sofa in the common room. Speedy obeyed, and the two of them managed to maneuver the limp figure out of the bulky insosuit. Without the shaded visiplates, Donovan could finally get a look at Powell's face. His skin was brightly flushed and bone-dry. His eyes still hadn't opened. His breathing was shallow—but at least he was breathing; Donovan hadn't realized until then what he had half-feared during their race through the tunnels.

"Holy smokes, boss," said Speedy, sounding nervous. "He looks pretty bad."

So Speedy was worried too. Of course he was; it was First Law. It was up to Donovan to get a handle on the robot's nerves—and his own—and take charge of the situation. He said, firmly, "It's going to be OK, Speedy." (Imagine what Powell would say if he saw him soothing an excitable robot!) "But we've got to get him cooled down, pronto. Go get the ice packs from the freezer."

"Right away, boss."

Donovan stripped Powell down to his shorts—Space, his chest was as red as his face!—then went to the environmental control panel and turned the temperature and humidity down. When Speedy got back with the ice, he was pacing up and down in front of the sofa.

He rushed to Speedy and took two of the ice packs. "Good work. Here, we'll put them where the major blood vessels are—on his neck—and here—" He was abruptly glad of the first-aid training they'd been required to sit through, even if he hated having to use it. "OK, Speedy, now get some cool water and a sponge. Then I'll send you after an electric fan, if you can find one."

"Right away." But Speedy turned back before he left the room. "Mr. Donovan?"

"What is it?"

"Don't you think you should take off your own insosuit? You're looking a little hot yourself."

"Huh?" It took Donovan a second to remember that he hadn't thought to remove anything but the helmet. "Yeah... yeah. All right." He shucked the thick plastic and shuddered at the sudden cool air.

At least his hands were unencumbered now. He took Powell's arm and felt his pulse. The heartbeat was strong and rapid, and the skin was hot to the touch. Donovan laid a hand on Powell's brow, and the other on his chest. Sizzling Saturn, he was burning up. How long would it be before the ice started to take?

Speedy returned with a bowl of cool water, and Donovan knelt beside the sofa and set to work sponging Powell's face and torso. Minutes later, Speedy returned again with an electric fan that had probably been an antique even when it had arrived on the planet ten years before. It did the job, though, and Speedy set it up on a table close to Powell.

Then the robot knelt beside Donovan, and produced its own sponge. Hesitantly, he said, "May I help, boss?"

Donovan blinked at him for a moment, and then recovered his wits. "Sure thing, Speedy. Thanks." He didn't know whether this would be really be more effective than one person doing it, but Speedy needed to feel helpful right now; and he himself felt more secure with the robot at his side.

They knelt there in silence, man and machine, Speedy sponging cool water onto Powell's chest while Donovan attended to his head. Speedy didn't ask about the runaround any more; Donovan would explain it to him later, when all the crises were past. Donovan said nothing. There was nothing that it would be useful to say.

The time seemed to stretch, with no sound but the dripping of water and the humming of the air conditioner and the giant power converters, still on their last legs. At length Donovan snapped out of a reverie, and something made him want to feel Powell's pulse again.

The heartbeat was quieter, slower. The whole-body flush was beginning to fade. With cautiously rising hope, Donovan touched Powell's face, his neck. He was still hot, but it wasn't the frightening, burning dry heat of before; at most, it felt like he had a moderate fever. "Speedy," Donovan said, quietly. "I think we did it. I think he's going to pull through."

"That's great, boss!" said Speedy, and he really did sound pleased.

"Yeah." Donovan stood up. "We can probably take off the ice now—don't want him to get too cold either." He suited the action to the word, and then addressed Speedy from the other side of the room. "Listen, Speedy. There's something else I want you to do now. Here—um—" He fished in the outside pocket of Powell's empty insosuit, pulled out the annotated map, and then, unfolding it, returned to Speedy. "See that red cross there?" He showed Speedy the map, carefully keeping it folded so as not to reveal the nearest selenium pool and the penciled dots that formed a circle around it. "That's a selenium pool. Go there and bring us back two kilograms of selenium, at all costs. That's an order."

"Yes, boss." But Speedy hesitated. "Only, what about Mr. Powell? I don't want to leave if—"

"He'll be fine," said Donovan firmly. "I'll handle everything here. But Greg and I need that selenium to run the photocell banks that handle the life-support here, and if you don't get it we really will die, both of us. Understand? Now, go get it."

"Yes, boss." Donovan glanced at the wall clock and noted the time down to the second. It would be interesting to see how well Speedy lived up to the nickname. In less than a second, the door to the airlock shut behind Speedy, and he was gone.

Donovan was left alone with the unconscious Powell. Without a nervous robot to order around, his own worry began to constrict at his chest again. He said aloud, "Hell!"

He paced the length of the room once, savagely, and shoved the fingers of both hands through his matted hair with some difficulty. "Damn you, Greg," he said. "Damn you and your clever plans, anyway."

But there was nothing to be gained from excitement. There was nothing to do but wait. With one more feverish swipe at his hair, Donovan knelt again beside the sofa and dipped the sponge into the cool water.


End file.
